Trust in God...is easy, perhaps for God...but sometimes us men have great difficulty with the concept. In God's time...keeping long track with my antique watch.
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Trust in God...is easy, perhaps for God...but sometimes us men have great difficulty with the concept. In God's time...keeping long track with my antique watch.
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Indeed, each of us a pixel, of the human psyche...but important enough to Christ who allowed Himself to be crucified for all, no exclusions. We may see ourselves as mere pixels, but God sees us, perhaps, as part of the Greater Body of His Christ portrait..?! Who am I to argue with the One who gave me Life, and so much living opportunity? So much power...my conglomerate able to beautify or destroy an entire world?
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I espouse no particular care for nature scenes with manmade structures, though I must admit some small indulgence in nostalgia at the thought that someone, with nature, shared this time and space and perhaps each became a part of the other
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We must
know hate to love! God seems to have
had a garden difference? Perhaps? -- a little snake
in most our psychologies.
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“I think you were born for this time and place. You can call it fate or Divine Providence, but you were born for this.
Sometimes I think our lives were predestined to go down a certain path.
Oh, we can choose the good or the bad along the way, but ultimately, perhaps we are predestined for things beyond our control. It is not acurse, but a gift, to be embraced and used in the right way.” - Dan "Doc" Thomas, The Rushing Tide
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Always more we could have said, should have said. But what love has been given, is never lost, though perhaps deeply planted in the firmament of time. It is God's Law and Promise to humanity...that there will be a rich harvest for those who remain faithful to the core tenderness of His Sacred Heart.
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I have learned very little worthwhile about life from books, other than perhaps the Bible. And nothing of value from Social Media.
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Indeed, enjoy nature, being one -- no drama in cities is not also enacted in a forest canopy as well as its shadowy, mysterious plotting depths. Perhaps more honestly? A sprinkle of sunlight blooms a long way.
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As I have often said, I know nothing...my writing is another way of inviting others, who are perhaps yet somewhat bewildered as I, to join me with a word-candle in the labyrinth of human, poetic consciousness.
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A stolen heart is perhaps the most profound of any larceny ... its theft removes any joy that once flourished, and places anguish inside an empty soul.
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I am surprised how such a small oval birdbath I keep in my backyard, attracts so many birds of different species. Of course, I do live in a desert. A lesson in there somewhere. Perhaps make a desert of one's heart, put a small bath of new love offered, and see what winged beauty it may attract.
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One day we all die. All that remains are the photos and memories. Perhaps a person could write it all down and leave something of themselves behind; their thoughts, their memories. And in their written thoughts, perhaps "Love" is eventually understood and found. One day we all die. We all die one day. I shall ghost with the best of them ... a very ghostly ghost.(LadyLabyrinth/Leanne Lovejoy-Burton)
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One day we all die. All that remains are the photos and memories. Perhaps a person could write it all down and leave something of themselves behind; their thoughts, their memories. And in their written thoughts, perhaps "Love" is eventually understood and found. One day we all die. We all die one day. I shall ghost with the best of them ... a very ghostly ghost.(LadyLabyrinth/Leanne Lovejoy-Burton)
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No one who loves
is ever entirely forsaken – perhaps by man,
but never by God~ Our Eternal!
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Perhaps we can not express certain experiences using words, but the reader can draw themselves into deeper thoughts from the words to experience it themselves.
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As every moment passes by, I feel burdened by the thought that perhaps, a lifetime is nothing. It is entirely nothing, just another breathing space created by the intertwined threads of time, and when that given time is bled dry, the space will disappear, only to become the breath of a someone that doesn't require time.
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"...that must be the mission of all, to do more than thought possible, for what each is called, perhaps the improbable..." from the poem "Our Mission" by Max Sebastian Burchett
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The poet, the writer ... is sharing their thoughts and feelings with the universe on another level. Revealing their greatest vulnerabilities as some sort of cathartic alm towards understanding and empathy, or there for the grace of God go I. Perhaps a confessional place where they commune with themselves and readers will acknowledge that similar darkness and light within themselves and not feel so different, or alone. This is the way of all writing, whether it is about joy, or despair.
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All stories written and lived are Light and Dark. Some are geared more towards exposing the light, as they reveal dark. Humour is both Light and Dark; perhaps in some instances humour is borne from dark. To experience Light, dark exposes itself, subtly or confronting. Without night, there is no morning.
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Everyone has a superhero within them, awaken yours.
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I am who I am,
Why I am so, I can't understand.
Some say I'm foolish,
Perhaps I am, but why, I'm clueless.
Seemingly, I am pointless,
But still, I am cool among the masses
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"Artist hide their art for fear of the loss of losing the love of their work for compensation and attention, the displacement of care and affection for concern and agony, and perhaps the jealousy that comes with knowing the thing you love most might be loved more by others, and it's your only one like a sole born child that's dowered off to the highest bidder, I prefer to let her stay and love her forever"
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Perhaps the heart, not the mind, retains the most memories when we fall in love.
because even if I didn’t know that I loved you before, my heart remembers you.
Originally written on April 3, 2021
10:21 AM
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Dante believed he was the Eternal God
and condemned whoever despised him to Purgatory. Perhaps he was a bit too cruel in exercising divine power never given to a mortal man.
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A trivial generosity of a stranger, perhaps it will let you thank forever.
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Before he was my brother,
he was my lover,
though certainly not the best.
I found no joy
in that addled boy,
nor he at my breast.
Why him? Why him?
As the candles dim,
it grows harder and harder to say:
Perhaps girls and boys
are the god’s toys
when they lose their way.
('Morgause’s Song' by Michael R. Burch)
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If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for.
('Piercing the Shell' by Michael R. Burch)
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Do poems show a poet's intelligence, or lack thereof? Perhaps, though I won't waste the day thinking on it. Long as you admit they never lack heart.
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"'Choices' are the tokens that take us to places perhaps we never wished we'd visited, but we leave with greater knowledge and a firmer and clearer understanding of ourselves and the truth of it all. We are a book of life constantly re-editing our pages and at the root of it all, we rely on our internal compass - for some, this is an elusive marker to locate, but eventually it is found. Never judge a book by its cover."
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